


All These Years

by Oxford



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxford/pseuds/Oxford





	All These Years

The dwarf was still numb from the battle with Azog, and what had happened afterward. He couldn't come to terms with the simple fact that he had lived. He wasn't supposed to live. When he had gone into that fight, he had fully expected to die. Thorin had been convinced that it was his last day on earth, even when Bilbo found him. Despite the hobbit's tearful assertions that he was going to live, he hadn't been able to bring himself to believe it. Up until he awoke in the healing tent with Bilbo at his side and Gandalf and an elf hovering nearby, he was convinced that he truly was dead. Not only had he neglected to make any plans for ruling Erebor after the battle, but he had said those things to Bilbo with what he been convinced was his dying breath. It felt awful to admit it, but he never would have said those things to Bilbo under different circumstances. A softly hummed tune reached his ears, followed by the muffled shuffle of hobbit feet against marble stone. It could only be one person.

“Thorin?” The hobbit’s voice was soft, meant to prompt the awake but not disturb the slumbering. Despite the expected nature of the sound, Thorin startled and shifted himself into a more dignified position than the one he had been reclining in. He was tempted to say nothing, for then Bilbo would leave without forcing him to eat anything or look at him with those sad eyes of his, but that would be cruel. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Bilbo meant well; unfortunately, his sentiment was misplaced.

"I'm awake." The dwarf barked in his usual gruff manner, instantaneously regretting his sharp tone. To prevent himself from dwelling on his various mistakes, he adjusted his left leg. One of the bones in his shin had been snapped sometime during the fight; he couldn't recall what or who had caused the injury. The whole memory was somewhat blurred. The leg now was in a splint, and it lay immobile atop his blankets. He glared at it, and resisted the desire to chop the bloody thing off and just be done with it. The door creaked open, and Bilbo backed into the room with a silver tray in his arms. The smell of something that was likely soup reached his nostrils. Instead of awakening his taste buds, it turned his stomach. Beneath the sickeningly hardy stench of the stew was a gentler fragrance. Tea, Thorin hoped. It was about the only thing he could keep down anymore. The curly-haired hobbit gave Thorin a hesitant smile, and Thorin despised him for it. Bilbo always seemed as if he was afraid Thorin was going to shout at him, and that made him want to shout at him, which made him feel all the more guilty for shouting at him. Despite this animosity, Thorin indulged himself for once, and let his eyes travel over the hobbit's face as he stepped into the room. Bilbo had changed so much since leaving the Shire. He still had his laugh lines, but his face had become a canvas. Deep lines, worry lines, Thorin suspected, had joined the others, and he could detect a few scars here and there. Despite all the hardships he had undergone with the company, Bilbo remained a saint. Thorin marveled at it. Never before had he found such purity of heart, such kindness, in any other creature. Bilbo was a million firsts for him. Not once would he had thought Bilbo could have saved his life. Not once had he thought Bilbo would become one of the few people he trusted.

Not once had Thorin considered that he might fall in love with Bilbo.

“Good morning. How is your leg?” Bilbo inquired, polite as usual. He crossed the room and placed the tray in Thorin’s lap. The dwarf hid a flinch as the gentle weight of the tray landed in his lap, hitting one of the bruises patterning his body, this one located on his hip. He would never let Bilbo see him wince; he couldn't let him blame himself for the dwarf's pain. His pain was a result of no one's actions but his own. Putting Bilbo's inquiries aside for a moment, Thorin considered the tray in front of him. Soup and tea, as he had inferred. Ever since the battle and his surprising survival, Thorin's appetite had been utterly nonexistent. As a result, the once-mighty dwarf was startlingly diminished and thin. It was a shock to visitors who had not seen him in many a day; thus, he turned away most visitors. Their disturbance at the sight of him was just another grim reminder of everything he had lost. Thorin's fist clenched.

"My leg's fine," he snapped, once again regretting it as soon as the words flew from his lips. He sighed, the action causing his eternally aching ribs to twinge, and covered his eyes with his scarred palm. Bilbo attempted to say something, but the blood in Thorin’s ears was roaring. The next words that left him were wretched, and strangled. Full of pain, they were. "I apologize. I can't-" Thorin faltered, and broke off with an unsuccessfully stifled sob. He hated this. He hated himself for showing weakness in front of Bilbo. This wasn't who he was. This wasn't who he used to be. This wasn’t who he was supposed to be. His shoulders shook with sobs he could no longer hold back, and tears fell hard and fast onto his sheets and soaked his hand. A small weight settled down on the bed next to him, and Bilbo’s light breath sounded in his ear. A small hand reached out and touched his face, tucked flyaway strands of unwashed hair behind his ears, and wiping away the tears.

“Oh, Thorin. It’s alright, I promise. It’s alright to cry sometimes, especially when you’ve gone through what you have.” Bilbo’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. It was a puff of sweet air in Thorin’s ear. The hobbit’s smooth fingers stroked Thorin’s coarse, stubbly cheeks. Without looking, Thorin could tell Bilbo was smiling that sweet, sad smile again. “Would you like me to redo your braids? They’re coming undone.” He didn't deserve Bilbo. Not in the sense that Bilbo had affected him negatively; it was quite the opposite. Bilbo was too good for him. Thorin was a bad person. He had done bad things. He had even done some of them to Bilbo. Bilbo didn't deserve him. Ever since Thorin had stepped into Bag End, he had brought nothing but pain and strife to Bilbo's life. He would be better off without the dwarf in his life. A numb sort of pain filled his mind and covered his aching body. Bilbo's tender touch was like fire against his skin. His gentle voice murmuring in Thorin's ear anchored the dwarf, and brought him back from the black despair. Suddenly he became all to aware of his proximity to the other. He struggled not to squirm away. All the pain of his wounds came flooding back at once, and he released an audible sound despite all his best efforts to the contrary. Thorin scraped his unbandaged right hand roughly across his eyes, wiping away the tears falling from them. He couldn't scrape away the redness or the painfully bright shine in his pale blue eyes. Not so much ice as they were a waterfall now.

"Please?" He choked out, in response to Bilbo's offer. Thorin's hands had developed a tremor after the battle, and were no longer steady enough to redo his braids. It was just another addition to his humiliation. One of his nephews had done them, when he was still letting people touch him. The healers were the only ones to touch Thorin's scarred body for about a month now. Bilbo was now included in that exclusive group. It was different when Bilbo touched him, however. The healers were mechanical, businesslike. They had a job to do, and they left as soon as it was done. Thorin's hatred towards them, which welled from needing healers at all, certainly didn't help matters. Bilbo was different. He touched Thorin out of choice. He touched Thorin because he couldn't bear not to. This realization jarred the dwarf, and he found himself leaning into Bilbo's touch. The hobbit smiled, and briefly cupped Thorin’s chin in his palm.

“I hope you realise that I would have done it even if you said nothing.” Bilbo whispered, carefully unclamping the beads that held the braids together. He set them on the tray next to Thorin’s tea and began to gently unweave the braids, subsequently remaking them. His hands were quick in brushing his scalp, but Thorin could tell he was being neat about it. “Would you like help eating? I keep telling those healers to put bandages on your hands or they'll get infected…” Bilbo’s voice was quiet; he probably figured Thorin had a headache. Thorin's head always pained him these days, but not as much as his other wounds. He appreciated the thought, of course. But it made him feel like an invalid, which he was, and he hated that feeling. Like Bilbo, being useless was the worst possible fate for him. The dwarf was struggling to decipher Bilbo's words; they were confusing to him in his pain-fuzzed state. The one thing he knew for sure was that they were meant in love. Platonic love or otherwise, the thought made his heart soar. The delicate motion of Bilbo's fingers in his hair was soothing to Thorin. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in months, felt himself relax. All the tension drained out of his body, and he barely heard what Bilbo uttered next. Something about his hands and eating. Despite knowing it would disappoint Bilbo greatly, Thorin shrugged, the movement causing intense pain to shoot down his shoulder. He twitched, an uncontrollable spasm, and had the presence of mind to be self-conscious about it, but decided Bilbo probably wouldn't mind.

"I'm not hungry." He murmured, breath coming more deeply now, regardless of the pain it caused him. His healers would have been thrilled to see him no longer breathing so shallowly. Perhaps they should have prescribed a daily dose of Bilbo Baggins from the start. The dwarf reached up and attempted to grasp one of Bilbo's hands, then press it against his chest, just above his heart. "Thank you, Bilbo." Thorin's husky voice was quiet but intense, and his icy blue eyes were fixed tightly on the hobbit's. To Thorin’s disappointment, he didn’t acknowledge the latter part of the remark, but instead focused on the former.

“Absolutely unacceptable, Thorin. You’ve lost at least ten pounds already. You're going to eat, let me feed you, or I'll force it down your throat.” Bilbo lectured sternly, frowning at Thorin. He could tell Bilbo was just worried about him, but he flinched at the stern tone of Bilbo's voice. He didn't want to eat, nor did he want to be forced to eat. Perhaps it would be best to go for the middle ground. He should make Bilbo happy. It was the least, maybe all, that he could do. It wasn't as if he could go pick flowers for the poor sod. Thorin fiddled experimentally with the spoon sitting in the soup, his hands shaking so much that the whole bowl rattled. He dropped the spoon with a despondent clunk, and turned his face away from Bilbo's. Look at what he had been reduced to. The former conqueror of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield, once feared by many, could not even feed himself.

"I can't even lift the spoon." He growled, with his face still averted from Bilbo's gaze. At least Bilbo was the only one who was witnessing his complete humiliation. Thorin knew in his heart the hobbit didn't think any less of him; nevertheless, his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Beside him, Bilbo nodded, all braiding attempts forgotten in wake the food debacle.

“Once you eat, and regain your strength, you won't shake any more. If you don't want me feeding you, you can try just drinking the broth. That's all it really is besides some carrots and little chicken bits…” Bilbo smiled at him, then gently took one of Thorin's hands and examined the badly healing cuts. “Let me go get some bandages.” Thorin thought about saying something spiteful, but he decided against it. It wouldn't be worth it to hurt the hobbit's feelings. He was already putting up with Thorin's permanent bad temper; Bilbo didn't need any more burdens. The question was burning ever-present at the back of Thorin's mind. Why was Bilbo doing this? Thorin had done nothing for him except cause pain. He had literally uprooted the hobbit's life and changed it in irreversible ways. Bilbo had no debts to pay off to him; Thorin was the one with debts to be honest. Thorin couldn't recall how many times the hobbit had saved his life; nevertheless, he knew the number was fairly high. He could never repay his debt to Bilbo if he had a million lifetimes. It was being increased daily, almost hourly.

"Do what you wish." He grumbled under his breath. The dwarf had not taken kindly to the food conversation. Just discussing it made his stomach turn unpleasantly. In his comment, however, he had given Bilbo permission to both retrieve bandages, and to feed him. Simultaneously he hoped Bilbo would catch the admission and hoped that he would not. The thought of being alone again was almost too much to bear. Bilbo touched his hand once more, then reached for the bowl of soup.

“Let’s get something in you first. You’re skin and bones, Thorin.” the hobbit added when he caught sight of his glum expression. Thorin swore under his breath in Khuzdul, loud enough for Bilbo to hear. Thankfully the hobbit hadn't been taught Dwarfish, or he likely would have reprimanded Thorin for language. He should have known Bilbo would have opted to feed him right away. It was just like the hobbit. Damn him, why did he have to be so thoughtful all the time? Any more caring and Thorin would overflow.

"Fine." muttered Thorin, glaring balefully at the soup. Bilbo set the bowl in his lap and moved the tray over to the bedside table. He picked up the spoon and began to feed the dwarf king, spoonful by spoonful. Despite his ill temper, Thorin complied with the hobbit's will and allowed himself to be fed. He swallowed mechanically every time the spoon was brought to his lips. As Bilbo did so he began to hum a tune, one Thorin knew very well. The broth left a foul taste in his mouth. His face twisted up unpleasantly, but at the sound of the song he had first sung to Bilbo he froze, and looked at the hobbit in shock, pushing the expectant spoon away. "You remember the song..." he choked out. The tune was that of Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold, the song the Company had sung to Bilbo in Bag End all those months ago. Bilbo stared at him in bemusement momentarily before realizing what he had been humming.

“Oh, yes. I didn’t even realize I was humming it.”

"It seems so long ago that I sang it to you." The dwarf mused in a husky voice. His mind cast back to that night in the Shire; that was the first time he laid eyes on Bilbo Baggins. So much had changed since then. Neither of them were the same person they had been that night. Bilbo especially. He often felt responsible for that; he felt he had some blame in changing the hobbit's character. But perhaps that wasn't quite right. Bilbo had made the decision on his own, after all. Thorin had not trussed him up in a potato sack and and draped him over the side of a pony. No, Bilbo had chosen to join the company. Up until now Thorin hadn't the presence of mind to wonder why. "Why did you follow us, that morning?" he rasped, piercing Bilbo with his brilliant blue eyes. One might wonder why this was so important to the dwarf, and he would be unable to explain his own reasoning. It simply mattered. Bilbo’s eyes met Thorin's, and the hobbit had to think for a moment.

“I realised I wanted to be a part of something bigger. Not just a simple little hobbit living in a hole in the ground… I realised I wanted adventure.” Bilbo smiled self-consciously, looking down at the half empty bowl. “And partly because Kili looked really disappointed when I said no…” Thorin's expression changed drastically at the hobbit's last remark. He had been fairly pleased with Bilbo's first few affirmations, but for reasons mostly unknown to him, the mention of Kili irked him greatly. He had always been a jealous dwarf. If he was honest with himself, there really was no reason why he should be jealous of his nephew. It had only been a brief mention, after all. Bilbo's small smile, normally reserved for Thorin, when he uttered Kili's name made the dwarf want to grind his teeth. Jealousy was one of Thorin's greatest vices. When you threw loved ones into the mix, it made things even worse. “

That's how it is, is it, then?” He responded, in a gruffer manner than usual. His face was warped into a scowl as well as his eyes being averted and downcast. Bilbo didn’t know what to make of it. He simply blinked in surprise and stared at the dwarf. He could tell Thorin was jealous; it was always obvious.

“Thorin, why are you giving me that look? What do you mean, ‘that's how it is’?” The hobbit frowned, and clinked the spoon against the side of the bowl. Thorin began to cross his arms, but dropped the idea when the action became too painful.

“You're the one who said it.” The dwarf's frigid blue eyes swept over Bilbo's frame, resting briefly on his hands, before snapping back to the murky depths of his soup bowl. Honestly, Thorin wouldn't be surprised if Bilbo quit here and now. Thorin was certainly doing his best to make things difficult for the hobbit, despite all Bilbo's kindness. Bilbo's kindness was the last thing he deserved. He deserve to be lying cold on a slab with Azog. Bilbo sighed, clearly frustrated with the dwarf, and shook his head.

“I’ll go get those bandages now.” said the curly-haired hobbit, moving off the bed and rising to his feet. Thorin watched him as he lifted the tea off the tray and set it on the bedside table, but glanced away quickly when Bilbo tried to catch his eye.

“Fine.” snapped the dwarf. He watched Bilbo leave, and tried to convince himself he didn't care. Of course, he failed miserably. It wasn't Bilbo's responsibility to put up with Thorin's bullshit. It shouldn't be his responsibility. Bilbo seemed determined to take up the job; he apparently wanted to make it his personal goal to ensure Thorin ate and healed and whatnot. Seeing how Thorin had already alienated anyone else willing to be his babysitter, there weren't many takers. Thorin was doing a fantastic job of it with Bilbo too tonight. Not that he needed Bilbo. That wasn't it at all. He was managing just fine. As long as letting himself slowly die was the plan, he was doing just fine. He should have died on Ravenhill with Azog and Fili. That was his destiny. That was what was meant to happen. But Azog had missed, and now here he was, playing this empty little game, waiting to die a long overdue death. Bilbo was wasting his time with him. He had died on Ravenhill; his body just hadn't gotten the memo yet. There was nothing here for him. Kili and Dain could manage Erebor. He was no use to them like this, and if the healer's whispers when they thought he was dozing were anything to go by, he probably was never going to completely recover. That was why they didn't bother with the bandages. They didn't think he would ever be well enough again to need his hands for anything more than sipping broth from a silver dish.

During this thought process, Thorin had changed position and now sat hunched over in his bed with his head between his hands and functioning knee drawn up to his chest. The position was extremely painful, but the agony focused his mind and assured him of his purpose. His purpose was to die. He should have fulfilled this purpose long ago. _But I don't want to go._ A trembling hand reached up and touched one of the recently redone braids. Bilbo. Oh, dear, sweet, Bilbo. He had ruined everything. Had he not existed, there would be no reason for Thorin to stay, nothing tying him to this life. Thorin could hold back a gut-wrenching sound, something between a sob and a howl, no longer, and he let it all out in a horribly tragic furious scream. In his rage, he snatched up the teacup and threw it with all the force he could muster at the oaken door. Upon impact, it shattered instantly, spraying the entire room with shards of glass and tea. “Damn that hobbit!” Thorin swung his legs across the bed; his heart was pumping with such adrenaline that he momentarily forgot about his useless limb. The moment he attempted to put weight on it, it gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the floor. His bad leg was twisted at an awkward angle, and he lay there, eyes fluttering, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The racket he raised was certainly loud enough to raise even the dead. It wasn't long before Bilbo raced back into the room. He hurled open the door, pausing at the sight that met his eyes. The hobbit made for Thorin’s side, but felt little pieces of glass prick his bare, thick-soled feet. He shook his head in annoyance.

“Thorin, you big oaf! What the hell were you thinking?” Bilbo snapped, kneeling beside Thorin and gently guiding him into an upright position. Thorin was shocked to hear the fear in Bilbo’s voice. It alarmed him, for yet another emotional attachment on the dwarf could be quite detrimental to Thorin’s plan. His eyes fluttered open and locked onto Bilbo's face. In his state of shock, the merely the sight of Bilbo had a comforting effect on him. One might say he was even happy to see the hobbit, and not just because he was rescuing the dwarf from himself. Bilbo was a sight for sore eyes even under the worst of circumstances. His mind flitted back to Ravenhill. Even with tears pouring down his face, Bilbo had been beautiful. He still was; his righteous anger at Thorin just enhanced his features. In the state Thorin was in, Bilbo seemed to almost glow with a celestial light. The dwarf smiled faintly, and reached out to touch Bilbo's face, his fingers grasping eagerly at the hobbit's wild curls. He felt as if he were floating. It was like he was detached from his body. He felt no pain from his wounds, nor from his leg. Cradled in the hobbit's arms, he felt safer than he had in more than a hundred years. Thorin couldn't recall the last time he had felt like nothing could touch him. Even Azog fell back when faced with the incredible force that was Bilbo Baggins. Thorin's throat was choked with the weight of his past. He longed to speak, to say what he longed to say, but something was preventing him.

“Bilbo…” He managed to squeeze out one word; the hobbit's name. Tears pricked Thorin's eyes and began to fall in earnest. He was such a fool. An oaf, as Bilbo had so eloquently illustrated. All he did was cause pain. Bilbo’s expression softened almost instantly at the sound his name combined with the tears that fell from his friends eyes. The hobbit sighed in a long-suffering way, and gently pulled Thorin into his lap, up against his chest. Ever so gently, he kissed the crown of Thorin’s skull.

“You are such an idiot, Thorin…. Scaring me half to death…” His tone was rebuking but loving, the tone one might use with a naughty child that had injured themselves mistakenly. Thorin sobbed in a broken-hearted way, his face pressed against Bilbo's chest. He was so lost that he didn't even think to take pleasure from the physical contact.

“I'm sorry…” the dwarf mumbled, his voice barely audible. Bilbo smiled, for he had expected the apology, with tears running down his face as well. He shook his head and pulled Thorin closer so he could press his tearstained face into the dwarf's hair. Bilbo hated seeing the dwarf in such a state, but he didn’t blame him for losing control. He knew he would act the same under similar circumstances. For the thousandth time he thanked the Maker for sparing him from injuries such as Thorin’s.

“It’s alright.” Bilbo whispered mildly, and grimaced when he looked at Thorin’s leg. “Let’s get you back into bed. I'll go get the elves to redo your splint. Your leg’s in a bad way.” Immediately he wished he hadn’t said it. Of course Thorin would know his leg was twisted, it was his own damn leg. A flash of terror coursed through Thorin at the thought of being alone again. He normally would have been fine with Bilbo's departure, or at least pretend to be, but things were very much not normal. His roughened hands had begun to bleed again; nevertheless, he grasped the front of Bilbo's shirt in a feeble attempt at preventing him from leaving. His grip, once strong enough to wield a sword of tremendous weight, could now barely form the strength to curl his fingers. His voice was hoarse and almost painful to listen to when he spoke.

“D-Don't leave me." Thorin was disgusted by the mere sound of that pitiful sentence. The once great king now groveled before a lesser race when presented with the mere inkling of solitude. Blood soiled the front of Bilbo's shirt; another misdemeanor to feel guilty about, thought Thorin in a melancholic resignation. Bilbo stroked Thorin’s hair, feeling as if he was being torn it two. To respect the dwarf’s wishes, or to do the right thing.

“I'll stay.” Bilbo assured him. “It’s going to hurt a lot more for me to try and set your leg back into place, though. The healers are right down the corridor… I won't be gone more than a minute…” Despite the training he had received as a herbalist at the hands of one of his Took aunts, Bilbo was no healer.

“Can't be worse than being impaled.” Thorin pointed out gruffly in a vague, half-hearted attempt at humor, which caused Bilbo to wince. He was trying to hide how much he was trembling in the hobbit's arms as a result of simply imagining how much it would hurt. He buried his face in Bilbo's shirt, and wondered how long Bilbo would tolerate them sitting on the floor like this. The dwarf hadn't been in such close physical quarters besides the healers since the last time Bilbo had held him like this. That had been on Ravenhill. The sun had been rising, and that ice had sucked all the warmth out of him; however, he had been burning up with agony. Thorin inhaled Bilbo's scent. Somehow, after all this time away from the Shire, Bilbo still managed a distinctly different smell than any of the dwarves. It was earthy, reminded Thorin of the garden outside Bag End, and definitively belonged to Bilbo. “I remember what you said to me…” Thorin murmured into Bilbo's chest. The shock and pain were finally getting to him, and he was drifting off into unconsciousness. “On Ravenhill, you said don't you dare, Thorin Oakenshield…” A smile creased his lips, and his eyes slowly closed. Bilbo frowned, and gave the dwarf a little nudge.

“Thorin?” When he received no response, he carefully slide out from under the dwarf. He moved Thorin also, so that he was propped against the bed frame.

***

Thorin awoke sometime later, back in his bed with a new splint on his leg and fresh bandages on his hands. He found it slightly worrying that he couldn't recall the elves replacing the splint or bandaging his cuts, but ultimately he decided it wasn't the worst that could have happened. He let his head sink back on the pillow, his gaze fixed on the flawless craftsmanship of the stone ceiling. He tried to recall the dream he had been having before he had awakened. Normally when he went into a pain-induced catatonic state, he either did not dream at all, or had horrendous terrors that forced him to relive being stabbed by Azog over and over in an endless loop. This one had been more… nostalgic. Comforting. He had awoken with a childlike sense of contentment, but also of longing, perhaps of what might had been if he had living a different life. The sound of birdsong had been in the air, and the scent of spring flowers drifting in the breeze. Thorin sighed deeply, feeling his ribs scrape up against each other as he did so. It wasn't long before Bilbo poked his head in, much to Thorin’s relief. He wondered what the hobbit had been doing while he had been unconscious. Judging by the even more tousled curls and the sleepy eyes, Bilbo had also taken a brief respite.

“You're awake. You slept for almost three hours, you know,” Bilbo said, with a scolding look on his face, as he stepped into the small stone room. Thorin said nothing in response, instead choosing to turn his head away from the hobbit and face the opposite wall. He was not consciously making a decision to be rude; he was only responding to his instincts. Having a rather muddled memory of what had happened after he fell out of bed and twisted his leg, he thought it may be prudent to ask for clarification. Clearing his throat painfully, he allowed his chilly eyes to briefly flicker back to Bilbo's face.

“Before I… passed out,” he said, for lack of a better term, “did I say anything...odd?” Bilbo nodded slowly, and Thorin’s heart sank.

“You asked me not to leave you… and then rambled on about Ravenhill. It was confusing.” he admitted, avoiding Thorin’s gaze. Thorin’s heart sank. Bilbo had never been the one to look away. So much had changed.


End file.
